


Fortunate Sons

by ahab2692



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Coming Out, First Time, Homophobia, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from Iraq, Brad and Nate take advantage of their mutual attraction, then decide to reveal their relationship to their parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortunate Sons

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos of Iraq, sometime shortly after he realized the nature of his affection for Nate Fick, Brad arrives at the conclusion that while women tend to perceive intimacy as a bond built upon shared feelings, men see it, more often than not, as the result of shared experiences, camaraderie. Fick is the only officer out of the lot who has even the slightest inkling of what the hell he’s doing, and after serving for some time under his command in this colossal fuck-up of a war, Brad is able to admit, if only to himself, that what could once have been considered respect and admiration for a good man can no longer be seen as anything but love.

The idea scares the hell out of him, but despite his chronic self-doubt, he’s never been one to let his lust fester, and if those quiet moments of shared glances and secret smiles are anything to judge by, there’s at least a chance that the LT might not be adverse to giving this thing a shot.

It’s easier than he could have ever hoped for. All it takes is a look of intent shot discreetly across a crowded room at the paddle party, and Nate’s eyes are widening in recognition, his mouth going slack, and Brad knows he’s got him. Wordless foreplay out the open, and the rest of the platoon is none the wiser. Five minutes later, and they’re holed up in a side-hall coat closet, rocking up against each other’s bodies through thin layers of cotton fabric, trailing bruising kisses across one another’s faces with punishing mouths turning redder and fuller with every bite and swipe of tongues across the sensitive flesh. It’s Nate’s party (and it’s definitely Nate now; no more “LT” bullshit), and they can’t be missing long without someone noticing, so they make it quick and fast and somehow reign it in enough to stop themselves from losing clothing, and then they’re slipping back into the throng one at a time, iron-jawed poker faces slapped on tight. They avoid exchanging glances for the remainder of the night, but the promise of things to come hangs in the air, palpable and true.

And after that, it falls into place as the beginnings of such affairs tend to do: 

Long, lazy summer days spent idly drifting along the California shoreline, talking of war and combat and politics and religion, but without the trademark black-bile cynicism that so often accompanies such conversation. Cool, dry nights reclining in the gnarled wooden rocking chairs behind Brad’s favorite local diner, basking in the low, soft thrumming of the nightlife splayed out in the city around the bend of the clay-caked cliffside road down the way. It’s all so very Hallmark and Christmas card and obscenely picturesque, and in any other life, Brad would feel like gagging at what a soppy display his life has become; but here and now, lying curled together in the in the warmth of the quilted blankets in the weekend bungalow, he’s simply grateful for whatever helter skelter force of nature brought them to this place. 

***

Once the bliss of the afterglow fades away, they reluctantly acknowledge the key pragmatic decision that requires attention.

“I want you to meet my parents,” Nate says suddenly at breakfast, without preamble.

Brad starts, looking up in surprise. Nate’s face turns beet-red at his outburst, but he juts his chin out defiantly, refusing to withdraw the statement.

There’s an awkward pause, then Brad’s snickering loudly and unabashedly, and Nate’s turning redder and folding his arms with a scowl. 

“What?” he mutters, ears tinged pink.

“Nothing,” Brad snorts, trying to stifle his stupid grin. “It’s just like fucking high school, that’s all.”

Nate rolls his eyes, spreading butter on his toast jerkily, irritably. “Shut up. I just think you should know each other. At this point.” Brad frowns inquiringly at that last bit, and Nate’s ears turn even redder, if that’s possible. “You know...now that it’s serious between us, I mean?” There’s a bit of uncertainty in that last sentence, and Nate’s expression is mixture of hope and wariness and badly masked anxiety.

Brad puts a lid on that with a genial smile and reaches over to ruffle Nate’s hair fondly. “That’s not a question is it, sir?” he says mock-offendedly, clutching a hand to his chest.

Nate grins and returns to buttering his toast, visibly cheerier. “No,” he agrees. “I know where we stand.” He looks up, cocking an eyebrow. “But the other point still remains. Will you come with me to visit my parents?”

“That depends. Is there going to be, uh, drama?” Brad asks. He’s half-teasing, but the curiosity is genuine. They haven’t really talked about their families all that much, so he doesn’t know whether or not to expect trouble.

Nate shakes his head. “They’re East Coast liberals, Brad. They won’t care about that.” He takes a sip of coffee, squinting thoughtfully out the window at the sunrise. “Besides, I think they might already know.”

That’s news to Brad. “Really? How?”

Nate make a non-committal noise, standing to take his plate to the sink. “I don’t know. My mom’s always been able to tell when I’m attracted to someone. Says I have a ‘tell’ in the way I talk about a girl." 

“I’m not a girl, Nate.”

“I’m aware. But you’ve come up in conversation in the past, and if I’m really as transparent as she claims I am, then she knew I have it bad for you the first time I mentioned your name.”

Brad nods absently. “Fair enough.” He stretches his limbs, yawning widely. “Well, in that case, I guess I don’t really have a good excuse to say no, do I?”

Nate shakes his head, his mouth twisted into that one-sided smirk Brad loves so much. “No you don’t.”

Brad grins. “Alright. Book the flight then.”

***

Entering into the space Nate occupied as a child feels weirdly like visiting the hallowed grounds of an ancient people. Gazing upon the photographs that pepper the viridian wallpaper, Brad has the strange sensation that he’s looking at a shrine untouched by the failings of the outside world rather than the uncomplicated records of memories of an earlier age. His fingers brush the dust off the border of Nate’s high school graduation picture. It’s eerie how little he seems to have aged since then.

As the afternoon draws to a close, Nate’s father fixes supper out on the back porch while his mother sits in the living room and barrages her son with questions about his “special friend” (a term which mortifies Nate and amuses Brad). The aroma of hickory-soaked wood chips mingles with the sharp scent of charcoal on the grill, and the mouth-watering flavor of fresh meat pervades Brad’s senses as he drinks from one of the glasses of lime-water set out on the coffee table. 

Nate’s mom is plump and sweet and carries with her the smell of freshly-bloomed lilacs and rich soil from the side garden. Her eyes, the same shade as Nate’s, glimmer with a spark of good-natured mischief. She’s a good listener, literally leaning towards whoever happens to be speaking at any given moment, as if she’s hanging on tenterhooks to every word of the dinner conversation. When she asks Brad about his hobbies and his career and his plans for the future, her interest is so genuine and unforced, he’s actually a bit staggered by it. It’s rare to meet someone so unfussy and authentically friendly.

Nate’s father has a hard, lined face, like a figure carved out of woodwork, and he doesn’t talk as much as much as his wife. But while his demeanor initially lends itself to intimidation, Brad soon discovers an equally open and acerbically witty man beneath the harsh exterior. He actually feels more comfortable in conversation with him than with Nate’s mother; this is a man who has endured true hardships in his life and come out stronger on the other side. Brad likes him immediately.

They lounge around in the kitchen, then the living room, then the back porch, right up until Mrs. Fick starts yawning sleepily and announces she’s headed off to bed. 

“I’m having Sunday brunch with the ladies at 11, but maybe we can go out to see a movie or something in the afternoon,” she says hopefully, kissing Nate on the cheek and patting Brad’s arm affectionately.

The men sit outside for a while longer, sharing war stories over cold beer and listening to the serenade of the nightingale off in the distant woods. Nate gets tired first and slips off into the house with a “Night, Dad,” and a kiss on the cheek for Brad. “Don’t stay up too late,” he murmurs in his ear.

Mr. Fick waits until Nate is out of earshot, then fixes Brad with a curious, blank look. Brad matches it boldly, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“Is this the part where you threaten my life if I hurt him?” he asks in a low voice.

Nate’s father smiles ruefully, draining the rest of his beer and crunching the can between his fingers. “I suppose it’s my duty as a parent to say something along those lines,” he chuckles. “But it looks like you beat me to the punch.”

“Sorry, sir,” Brad says with a smirk. He pauses, then adds, “If it helps, I promise not to fuck this up.”

Mr. Fick looks at him slyly. “I’ll hold you to that.” He stands with a huff, patting the crumbs off his shirt. He looks at Brad thoughtfully. “You know,” he says quietly, “Nate’s only brought a few girls home over the years. And I’ve never seen him look at any of them the way he looks at you.”

Brad’s not sure how to respond to that. He ends up settling for, “I see...”

“I imagine it’s not that different to the way I looked at my wife when she agreed to marry my sorry ass,” Mr. Fick says, with a sort of lop-sided grin. He pats Brad’s shoulder. “My son is a good boy. Don’t take what he’s given you for granted.”

Brad’s a little surprised to feel a lump in his throat, and he swallows it down without much thought. “Isn’t that just another way of saying you’ll hurt me if I fuck this up?” he jokes. But he meets the man’s eyes and hopes that his expression silently conveys his true meaning.  _I won’t. I won’t ever take him for granted._

Mr. Fick seems to understand. “I suppose it is,” he replies, shuffling back into the house. “Good night, Brad.”

“Good night, sir.”

Brad goes to bed about ten minutes later. He slips in behind Nate and presses a kiss against the back of his neck. Nate groans in annoyance, but he arches back into the touch, allowing Brad to pull him against his chest.

“I think your father just gave me his blessing,” Brad whispers, stroking Nate’s hair absentmindedly.

Nate smacks his hand away, yawning. “That’s fantastic. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

Brad grins, laughing silently. “Yes, sir.” He closes his eyes, drifting off to the sound of Nate’s breathing. “I like them,” he mumbles.

Nate doesn’t turn his head, but he reaches around and squeezes Brad’s hand. “They like you, too.”

They slip away into dreamless slumber.

***

Brad’s trip to his father’s house is brief. He takes the motorcycle since there’s no need for Nate to come with him.

It’s been ages since he’s walked the narrow pathway up the drive to his childhood abode, and there’s a low, throbbing ache in his chest as he reaches up to clench the rounded brass knocker on the front door. His father opens up with an inquiring expression.

“Bradley,” he says, tone flat, as though he’s simply making an observation instead of asking a question.

“Hi, Dad,” Brad says softly. “Got a minute?”

They’re standing in the back yard now, looking out at the distant ocean and the spread of the town in the hills below. The lawn’s been recently mown, and the pungent scent of grass fills Brad’s nostrils as he breathes in deep in the midday chill. He can’t quite put a finger on what precise memory that sensation triggers, but he feels a sudden stab of nostalgia like a jagged knife in his heart. His breathing stutters. 

His father’s jaw is set, squinting at him blankly. It’s a poker face. Brad’s seen it once before, when his mother died in the quiet of the night and the doctor came down the long hallway in that carefully practiced stride to deliver the news. Nothing in the expression betrays a hint of emotion apart from the fierceness in those dark eyes. He’s a fighter. Brad’s never once seen the man cry. It’s just not in his nature.

“What have you come here to tell me, son?” 

Brad feels a pang of fondness in spite of himself. Always cuts to the chase, his father.

“I’m in a relationship now,” he says evenly. “I thought you should know.”

His father’s face is still, unmoving. “Is that it?”

Brad nods. “That’s it,” he replies. That’s all it should have to be, as far as he’s concerned.

There’s a long pause, and Brad focuses in on the distant waves for some rhythm to cling to. 

His father shoves his hands in his pockets, turning his face downward. “Do I get to meet her?” The emphasis is a dare. He’s thrown down the gauntlet, even though he already knows the answer.

Brad shakes his head. “I figured I shouldn’t bring him.” 

And there it is. And that’s that.

His father doesn’t say anything, then nods once, briefly. “Okay then.” He turns to meet Brad’s gaze, his eyes cold. “You should go home now.”

It’s not unexpected, but it still feels like a punch to the gut.

Brad nods. “Alright.”

His father pulls his hands out of his pockets, rubs them together distractedly. He turns back to face the ocean. “You’re still welcome to come by for Hanukah,” he says tonelessly. He doesn’t add any caveats, but it’s nevertheless clear that the invitation is singular.

“No,” Brad says firmly, and the muscles in his father’s jaw twitch. “I’m not going to end this, and I’m not going to dance around the subject for your comfort. If you can’t share this part of my life with me without trying to cheapen it, then I don’t see the need for us to share anything else.”

The silence drags. His father finally so Brad can see his face, and there’s weariness there. Weariness and disappointment. “If that’s the way it has to be,” he says stiffly.

Brad swallows, but doesn’t break. “It is.” He turns on his heel and walks back down the drive. “You have my number if things change,” he calls over his shoulder.

The journey back is quiet and uneventful. Brad hardly remembers it.

Nate is waiting up for him, sprawled out on the couch with his first edition copy of  _Moby-Dick_ , reading glasses slightly askew as he thumbs through the pages with delicate care. He glances up at the sound of the door.

He sees Brad’s face and has the decency not to ask how it went. He just pours him a glass of wine and moves his feet so Brad can join him on the couch.

They sit there until nightfall, then Nate carefully sets his bookmark in place and takes Brad by the wrist, dragging him into the bedroom. He peels off his shirt and sits on the edge of the mattress, running his thumb back and forth across the back of Brad’s hand.

“What do you need?” he asks softly, taking his reading glasses off and setting them on the nightstand.

“Fuck me, please,” Brad replies.

Nate pulls him down and pins him to the bed, straddling his hips, fingers working gingerly at the buttons on his shirt.

“Okay.”

***

It’s not perfect, and it’s not how Brad envisioned it would be, how he pictured it playing out in his wistful fantasies out in the scorching desert heat.

But it’s something. Maybe something better than perfection. It’s really happening, and that beats combat jacks by a landslide.

The hard-edged realism of day-to-day life grows wearying, but it never beats them into submission. Nate finishes his schooling and makes his move into politics, and it’s trying and frustrating and it drives Brad fucking crazy, but he’s supportive every step of the way. They dance around the ever-present trappings of DADT, waiting patiently for the repeal. (“It’s coming down the pipeline,” Nate promises repeatedly, much to Brad’s chagrin. “I swear, it’s next on the agenda. They’re not going to put it off forever.”)

It’s worth it. The world fails them time and time again, but they never fail each other.

Brad often marvels at the fact that this is his  _life_ ; this is what his life has become. It’s all rather surreal. But he wouldn’t redo any of it.

They don’t deserve the ease with which all of this has come about, but neither of them are going to complain. Everyone ends up somewhere. They’re not going to question their good fortune.

Somewhere along the line, they became lucky men.


End file.
